


guttered red

by Poose, seven_hells (Poose)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Sexual Slavery, Short, Wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/seven_hells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Melisandre takes away Jon Snow's power and makes him her willing slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guttered red

Her body gave off heat, so much that she required no fire in her chambers. Candles burned, however, hundreds upon hundreds of them, red like her, with flames that guttered when the north wind blew in through the open windows.   
  
"Close your eyes," she instructed him, after he had knelt before her. As Stannis' wife, Selyse was the queen by rights, and yet when she said  _kneel_ he went.   
  
 _The Night's Watch takes no part in the wars of men. I do not serve you._ He had thought it and said it, but when he came to her chambers during the hour of the wolf, he felt as craven as a commoner.  
  
She carded her fingers through his hair. Heat radiated from her fingertips to his scalp and he exhaled a shaky sigh, breathed out the weight of his bastard blood, his command, the loneliness that wrenched at his gut like an obsidian blade, black and cold.   
  
His own nights were dark and lonely, as they had been, each to a one, since he rode out from Winterfell. Even those, Jon Snow remembered, had been lonesome in their own way, even when Arya climbed into his narrow straw bed and stuck her cold toes between his legs.   
  
"Don't you have a fire, little sister?" he would ask her, and she would burrow her nose into his neck and say, "Sansa won't stop _talking_ in her sleep." Jon would smile and she would yawn, and he would say, "Sleep, then, but see to it that you're gone by morning."   
  
 _Your mother won't like it,_ was what he thought. _She would not have you befriend me._ He never spoke ill of Lady Catelyn to her children, though her hatred of him was writ clear across her brow.  _You don't belong here,_ it said.  _Leave. Be gone._  
  
"Arise," she said. Her voice trickled down his neck like warm water. He stood, and felt lighter by half. She circled around him, she spoke soft words to him. The candles flared with the rise and fall of her voice, the timbre of her intonations, and his clothes fell to the floor. She stroked down his front, leaving trails of heat in her wake. "To the bed," she said, purring in his ear. "Lie on your back and wait for me."   
  
Jon moved as if through treacle but he went all the same. The voices of reason and honor, voices that clamored and shouted at him to keep his distance from her were silent only in this room. The whispers of sorcery and blasphemy died away when the door shut heavily of its own accord behind him. The first step was always the most difficult. To get himself there without turning back in hushed fear. One step, one foot in front of the other.   
  
She would open the door before he rapped once, and he would be drawn in and under, to feel her and to forget himself. Stronger than a tide: a sweeping dark undertow, that loosed his limbs and pinned him like a butterfly.   
  
"You are thinking," she said, tilting her head.   
  
"I did not mean to," he answered.   
  
"I will burn your thoughts away," she told him.   
  
"If it please you," he said.   
  
She smiled down on him, bright and terrible like the sun, and knelt beside him. One candle out of the hundreds was in her hand, dark red and thin, too shiny for beeswax, too rich-smelling to be tallow.   
  
Jon Snow's instinct was to cover his chest from the wax, but he was unable to move his hands from his sides. The struggle was taken from his body, the fight crept out as she turned the candle on its side.  _Drip_ went the wax, one smooth fat pearl of it on his chest. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his eyes so as to not look upon her face.   
  
It fell upon him in hot rivers and molten lumps, burning the sparse hairs on his chest and the few around his nipples. Red wax spilled down his sides to stain her bedclothes, but she was unceasing.  The pain was white-hot: a quick flash of bright agony and then a spreading heat through his skin, under his skin, down his belly, beneath his pants.   
  
When her hand touched him he grew hard as iron, and she doused him with wax there as well, until his whole body was mottled with drips and red slashes.  _It looks like warfare_  Jon thought, as she stroked him. The hardened wax pulled at his skin, and where it fell off the flesh was heated smooth and shiny.   
  
Her heat overwhelmed him as she climbed atop him and smothered him with her red robes. His body weighed as much as a ship's anchor, heavy and leaden, and he could not push up into her, could scarce lift his wax-streaked hips from the bed. She threw back her head and shouted words in a tongue he knew not, and the candles gusted out as the shutters slammed closed.   
  
How he made it back to his own chambers Jon Snow could be never be sure, just as he was always uncertain if the red woman burnt him only in a dream. His softest tunics chafed for a week and he could barely hold his cock to take a piss without wincing, however, so it must have happened.


End file.
